Jailhouse Rocky, Part 2

If I would have known I was going to jail that sunny July day in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, I would have done something zany like bust the tops off of parking meters or trade stocks for Martha Stewart. That just sounds so much better than the beer-related offense I was busted for.

No, it wasn't a DUI. Not public drunkeness. Not even minor in possession. I went to the slammer for beer in the park back in 1991. The worst part of it? It was my first beer that day and I didn't even get to finish it.

I had just arrived in Detroit Lakes with a couple of friends. The atmosphere was like spring break, with lots of bikini-clad girls and booze. No sooner had we stepped out of the car when we cracked our first beers. A big day of fun in the sun was ahead, so I thought I better empty my "cargo hold" before I got down to some serious partying.

I trotted over to a bathroom a half block away in a small park. On the way back, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was Barney Fife's stunt double. He glared down at my beverage.

"Is that beer in that container?" he asked. "Because if it is, you're going to have to come over to the car with me."

I didn't have a panic attack yet. This was the same guy who let some Girl Gone Wild off earlier from an obvious DUI because she flashed him. I wasn't drunk enough to expose myself to get out of whatever trouble I was in, but I had seen people walking around with open containers all day in clear view of the police. I figured they just thought I was underage. Once I proved I was legal, I'd be on my way because people were passing by the cop car, alcoholic beverages in plain sight, pointing at me and laughing.

I waved back at them laughing and gave Barney my ID. I told him there was no problem because I was legal drinking age despite my boyish looks.

"Well, actually, there is a problem," he said. "We have a city ordinance here in Detroit Lakes. It's illegal to have beer in the park or on the beach."

"Really? Wow, I would have never guessed with everyone walking around with their drinks," I replied. "Do you think you could just give me a warning? This is my first time in town. Sorry, I had no clue it was illegal."

"Yeah, right," Barney said. "Give me a break, Mr. Liar. You're from Fargo, so you've been here before. Probably every weekend. That's why you're going downtown."

"I'm going to jail for having a beer in the park?" I asked, utterly stunned.

"That's right," he said. "In Fargo, maybe they let you big city boys get away with things like murder and arson. But we have rules here in Detroit Lakes."

OK, first of all, I was no killer. Just because I was from Fargo didn't mean I regularly ran my victims through a wood chipper. I was no arsonist either, unless you count lighting farts while camping with friends when I was 12. Second, I wasn't a big city boy. Fargo didn't even have 75,000 people. Third, it really was my first time in Detroit Lakes. Usually I was too drunk to leave Fargo. Fourth, Detroit Lakes was too Mayberry to have a downtown. Fifth, this fucker was actually driving away with me in the backseat.

I was going to jail. For beer in the park. What a horseshit reason. I felt so ashamed. Not necessarily for going to jail, but for going to jail over such a paltry offense. The other inmates would tease me to no end over that.

"Isn't the the real reason I'm going to jail is because I'm wearing Bermuda shorts and not a string bikini," I snapped back at Barney. "If I would have showed you some ass, maybe you would have let me off a DUI like that chick I saw you pull over earlier."

"That's enough, college boy!" he screamed. "There's more to you than meets the eye. I've been on the force four months and have been trained to spot the bad guys. Then I nail 'em like a hammer."

"Do not pass go, do not collect $200, go directly to jail," I said hysterically in the backseat. "I bet if I owned all the railroads and a couple of hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place, we could work out some sort of deal. But I don't even have a house on Mediterreanean, so I'm shit out of luck!"

Barney grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the booking area. He barked at me to empty my pockets, which I did. My only possessions were $37, far short of the $110 needed to post bail, and one of those 3-inch money clips that had a tiny flip out nail file on one side and a mini knife on the other.

"We have a knife here!" Barney announced to the room, holding the blade in the air as if he was displaying a Wesley Snipes' movie prop. "Yep, this guy was hiding a knife. I need to look up the rules and see if this qualifies as a concealed weapon."

"Weapon?" I laughed, snatching it back. "This thing couldn't even cut warm butter..."
To demonstrate, I decided to show him it couldn't even break my skin by running it lightly over my finger. Oops, I gave myself a little slice. I never knew I was a cutter.

Barney grabbed the "knife" and pushed me toward a wall. He told me to "spread them." I was hoping I wouldn't hear that phrase again after meeting my cellmate.

"OK, you're clean," he said, finishing his frisking. "Turn around and back up against the wall. How tall are you?"

"Uh, about 6-foot-4," I said.

"Liar!" he screeched. "You're only 6-3 and a half. The measuring stick is right behind you. Don't lie to me again during questioning."

Have you been arrested before? No. Do you have any outstanding warrants for you? No. Do you have any scars or tattoos? Yes and yes.

My scars, obtained in a 3-wheeler accident with a barbed wire fence 8 years earlier made my left upper arm and neck look pretty rugged. Barney was convinced the scars were a results of my life of crime.

"A barbed wire fence wouldn't cut you up like that," Barney said. "They look like scars from something bigger. Like a knife fight. I have a feeling you are bigtime.

"Are you in a gang?"

"Oh, yeah," I joked. "The Apple Dumpling Gang."

"Not funny," he said. "What about your tattoo on your back? I noticed it's blue. Did you get it when you joined your gang?"
It was a tattoo of the Schlitz Malt Liqour Bull, but this dumb ass really thought I was a Crip or something. My gang was more like something Rascal Flatts would sing about.

Next I was told to strip, and Barney wasn't holding any $1 bills. I started to wonder if this was when the real fun was about to start: Was I on the brink of a cavity search? Barney had pulled so many crazy accusations out of his ass, I wondered when he'd start looking in mine.

"You better take this stuff," he said, handing me a jumpsuit, bedroll and toiletries. "Take a shower and get changed. I have a feeling you're going to be here a long time."

My prison Prada was a white, sleeveless, v-neck jumpsuit. It read "Becker County Jail" in huge letters on the back. I totally wanted to steal it. As I finished getting dressed, two deputies about my size strolled up. Barney thanked them for coming and told them he was scared to take me upstairs in the elevator alone, so he called for backup.

"Oh, please, the worst thing I've ever done in an elevator is fart," I complained. "You think I'm going to jump the three of you in an elevator inside a jail full of police? Just so I don't have to face that beer in the park bullshit? My God! You're mind is more fucked up than Marlon Brando's in Apocolypse Now."

"Yeah, beer in the park," Barney said sarcastically. "I'm sure when your prints and mug get run through all the databases for the FBI, CIA, DEA and ATF, that's all that will come back. You're not fooling anybody, Cool Hand Luke. I know a criminal when I see one. You may not be on the FBI's 10 most wanted, but I know you're on somebody's list"

Usually I'm a pretty patient Teddy Bear, but I was really pissed when Barney decided to cuff my ankles and wrists with these big-ass chains. I guess I should have considered myself lucky that he didn't muzzle me and cart me around like Hannibal. I just gritted my teeth and must have looked like a raging lunatic at this point.

The timing for that was perfect. The elevator reached its floor and the door opened. Here I am, 6-4 (OK, 6-3 and a half), 275 pounds, with all my nasty scars and Crip/Schiltz Malt Liqour Bull tattoo hanging out. I'm visibly furious, being marched out in the general population garb, shackled, escorted by three deputies. I actually heard gasps and whimpers as I was led down the narrow hallway with cells on each side.

I glared in them and saw mostly teenage boys clad in their swimming trunks. I could see the fear in their eyes. They were worried I was window shopping for a new bitch.
At the end of the hall, I was let into a dark cell. I thought I might have the place to myself until out of the shadows walked the meanest dude I'd ever laid eyes on. He had grizzly long hair, a tattered beard and snaggleteeth.

"My name's Thor!" he growled.

"Like the Thunder God, right?" I replied.

We hit it off right away. We started playing cards for cigarettes. I was unbeatable, but unfortunately I didn't smoke. Thor also regaled me with tales about what pricks the cops were, how he didn't care for Dolly Parton's music but loved her tits, and the stories behind his 87 various scars and tattoos.

Soon, we gained another cellmate. He was 15, weighed about 120 and was soaking wet, I'm not sure from the lake or pissing himself. He was shivering either from cold or fright.

"Here kid," I said, offering him my blanket. "You can use this to warm up."
He turned white as a sheet and immediately pressed himself against the wall to protect his ass hymen from Thor and me. I asked Thor about Dolly Parton's boobs to try and lighten the mood and convince our new cellmate we weren't interested in prison rape.

Finally I was given my one phone call to arrange for my release. Unfortunately, I couldn't call my friends because I did not know where they were and no one had cell phones at the time (I found out later they thought I had hooked up with an ex-girlfriend). So I had to call my Dad.

"Oh, no, it's not a DUI, is it?" Dad asked as soon as he heard me say jail.

"No, much worse," I said. "I've been in the slammer 14 hours for beer in the park."

Dad told me not to worry, he'd drive up and bail me out in a couple of hours. He also said if beer in the park was that big of an offense, half the family would currently be serving a life sentence.

When I got back to the cell, our inmate count had increased to six. Thor was giving the group a class on how to roll your jail mattress on one end to make up for the missing pillow.

Before I knew it, breakfast was being served. We got french toast (which was regular toast served with maple syrup), a small army helmet full of Cheerios and a glass of rust juice.

I spent 18 hours in the bighouse for beer in the park, roughly an hour for each ounce of beer I had consumed that day. My release was bittersweet, as I didn't get to participate in any legendary incarcerated activities. Not just lifting weights, making license plates, or starting a prison riot. Better stuff like eating 50 hard-boiled eggs, playing for the Mean Machine football team against the guards, or blaring opera music over the yard loudspeaker.

I vented my lingering anger of being cherry picked out of the bunch for the offense to Dad on the way home. He laughed when I told him the original plan was to party and maybe get laid.

"Don't feel bad," he said. "You can still tell your friends you got screwed last night. Because you pretty much did."

Stay tuned for Part 3, when I go back to the bighouse a few years later. I'm such a jailbird!